Yesterday Once More
by Queenofthehours
Summary: Will eventually be a series of oneshots showing the boys at various ages preseries. Hopefully contains all your supernatural needs: fluff, angst, drama, humour and maybe even a little hunting. Chap 3: Dean's not sleeping with a twist. Angst.
1. Paradise City

Yesterday once more

Disclaimer: I offered Kripke my shiny penny for them but he said no : (

A/N Okay, so these are gonna be a series of oneshots showing the boys at various ages preseries. They won't be in chronological order because that would show faaar too much organisation. I'll try to get a bit of everything in there.

All suggestions for a shot are very welcome, just put them in a review or message me. x

Rating: K+

Genre: Fluff and sap.

Dean: 14 Sam: 10

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Paradise City

"Sammy! Stay at the shallow end!"

"But Deeeeean! I can swim really well now – you taught me! I know I can handle the deep end!"

"Dad's orders"

Dean ignored Sammy's continued whining and leant back in the tattered sunlounger, soaking up his surroundings. In their life they didn't get many moments like these, and he wanted to make sure he made the most of it. They were just outside their current motel, not that he could really tell the difference between them anymore, in what could be classed as a garden if you had about four of your five major senses missing, squinted really hard and didn't move around too much. Dean didn't care. It was enough for him.

When they'd first walked to their room he'd been a bit distracted with the big _hole_ in his side from their last hunt, which he was still trying to hide from Dad at the time, to even notice the disused old pool idly sitting slap-bang opposite their door. But Sammy had. Two hours of jumping up and down, stamping feet and puppy dog eyes had established that yes, there was a pool, and yes, Sammy wanted to go in.

Sam's little tirade was interrupted only briefly by the discovery of Dean's wound, and the ensuing angry yelling accompanied by careful bandaging – an impressive feat which John Winchester seemed to have perfected. However, as soon as Dean was deemed "fine by Winchester standards" Sammy's look of worry quickly morphed back into 'annoying little brother' mode, and Dean was tempted to stab himself in the arm with a nearby pencil to reverse it again. He lasted another 20 minutes.

So now here he was, sitting in a chair with more rust than metal, watching his brother bob back and forth. It was a cool day so the pool must have been cold at best, not to mention the suspicious colour of the water, and yet Sam was laughing and splashing away like he was at freakin' Disney Land. He was actually _enjoying himself, _and the sad thing was, so was Dean. Of course a pack of angry Hellhounds on heat couldn't get him to admit that to Sammy.

"Dean! Come and play with me!"

"Aw... C'mon man. You know I can't. Dad says I'm not allowed to stretch my injury."

"But what if you only-"

"Sammy! No buts! I can't alright? So would you just drop it already?"

Sam sighed before throwing a half-hearted "fine" in Dean's direction.

Oh, great, thought Dean. Sorry for getting myself gouged by a bitch of a harpy. I _obviously_ did it on purpose, because I love the tingly sensation of my inner organs being rearranged so much. He rolled his eyes before returning to what he was actually supposed to be doing out there, studying a Guide to Celtic Mythology book. Of course the fact that his eyes kept finding their way back to his little brother every five seconds didn't make his research all that easy. He was reading the same line for the twentieth time when he noticed a few damp spots appearing on the page in front of him, and he looked up into the face of a very wet and drippy Sammy.

"Hey bro, finally got bored of your algae convention over there huh?"

"It would have been more fun if you'd got in too" he said petulantly, a pout evident in his young features.

"For the last time Sammy, I – Hey aren't you cold? It's freezin' out here dude and you're just in your boxers, and you're wet"

Big brother instincts kicked in instantly and he leant forward anxiously, eyes automatically sweeping over his little brother's body for any signs of coldness. After a few seconds of careful searching he relaxed back into his chair, obviously satisfied with his findings. Sam stood, patiently waiting for Dean to finish his little over-protective activity, before delivering his carefully thought-out reply with a smug smile.

"If it was freezing out here, and I'm wet, then I would be covered in ice. Stupid."

Any lingering concern of Dean's melted away as he gave Sam a small scowl and playful punch on the arm.

"Where did you learn to be such a smart-ass?" he asked as he twisted around to collect up his stuff to take inside.

"From you!" was Sammy's immediate reply.

"Oh yeah, I'm sure Dad's gonna love that." Dean mumbled to himself as he picked up all the junk he'd managed to spread around himself.

"Oomph!" everything he'd managed to balance in his hands at that point fell to the floor as a bony pile of little brother fell on his stomach. He looked down to see Sammy making himself quite comfortable in the folds of his shirt, as skinny legs scrabbled to get a good footing on his jeans. He raised his eyebrows in a classic "What the Hell" gesture, but Sammy simply shrugged and said "You're warm," as if this totally explained why he'd just decided to do a cat impression, complete with nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

"Oh is that right?" Dean asked amusedly.

"Yep"

Dean protested a few moments more before wrapping his arms around the small boy who was grasping at him like he was a treasured teddy bear.

"Just to make sure you don't fall off or something" he grumbled

"Oh is that right?"

"Yep"

They lay like that for a while. Sammy curled up on top of him, taking in the calming smell of his brother, and Dean simply holding him, his breath gently tickling the mop of hair just below his chin. Maybe they would have stayed there for longer, forever if they could, but a subtle shiver ran down Sam's spine, so small most people wouldn't have noticed. However, most weren't people being used as a couch at that point in time.

"We should head inside before you _do _turn to ice. Plus, you got me all wet now, and I don't have any life ambitions to become a Popsicle either." He shoved his little brother off him with a careless motion that made Sam completely forget the affection Dean had just shown, a fact that wasn't accidental.

"Ow! Dean! That hurt!" Yep, everything was back to normal again. "I could have fallen out of the chair! I'll tell Dad! He'll want – what are you doing?" Sam asked curiously as Dean pulled off his favourite (and a little damp) band tee.

"Trying to stop my idiot brother from catching hypothermia." was all the answer he got before the full force of Black Sabbath hit him in the chest. Dean just smirked as Sam made an 'Oh' face, and started dutifully pulling the shirt on. Unfortunately, Sam was dividing his attention between putting on the tee and trying to balance on the edge of the chair, and he'd never really been a multi-tasker. Somehow he managed to end up _underneath_ the sunlounger with the shirt twisted half-way round and his head stuck in one of the arm holes.

"What are we gonna do with you huh?" Dean chuckled, smirk firmly in place, as he yanked Sam to a standing position and pulled the tee down until his brother's messy head popped out the top. He was met with a full-on Sammy smile, a sight to behold, all shining white teeth shown in a neat row, dark eyes sparkling, and lightly freckled skin pulled tightly across the bridge of his nose. Dean paused for a moment, just looking at his brother, taking a mental picture of his absolute happiness and storing it away with all other things bright and golden that he saved for rainy days.

Dean cleared his throat "What're you doin' just standing there grinning like a dork? C'mon. If you've had enough fun doing you're failed Houdini impression, help me pick up this stuff so we can shag-ass back to the motel room."

_And from that very room the silent watcher who'd seen the whole thing moved away from the window with a shake of his head and a muttered "my boys"._

A/N Good, bad or the downright fugly? The little button is calling to you . . .


	2. I don't wanna grow up

Yesterday Once More

Disclaimer: Err. .me and my mate once came up with a pretty detailed plan to kidnap Jensen Ackles. . .so maybe one day I will own them. 

A/N Thank you to everyone who read, faved, reviewed, alerted my first chap, you make me go all mushy inside.

Dedication: XdaisychainX for being my lovely beta

Rating: K+

Genre: Humour (hopefully) with a generous dollop of angst. Strange combination I know, but I swear I'm addicted to torturing these guys, and plus – c'mon it's John.

Dean: 16 Sam: 12

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I Don't Want to Grow Up

The sound of something breaking roused John instantly from his research, hunter instincts switching flawlessly to alert, and he could actually _feel_ his body tense as it prepared for trouble. In fact, he was so focused on searching for any sign of danger that he near jumped out of his skin when his youngest son came barrelling out of his room like a bat outta Hell. Damn, if only the kid hauled ass like that during training then maybe John wouldn't have to ride his ass about it all the time. Before he had time to delve any deeper into that thought, he was met with the cause of Sam's sudden athletic prowess.

"Sammy! You are dead meat dude!" Pissed off big brother ả la Dean – not a pretty sight.

The two boys managed to chase each other around the house another three times before John realised resignedly that he was going to have to do something if he wanted to have any furniture left. With a sigh, he rose from his chair, drawing himself up to his full height.

Both brothers froze immediately. . Or they tried to. However, due to the small matter that they were both running at the time, John was treated to quite the display as they skidded across the floor, arms flailing wildly as they tried to regain their balance, socks slipping against the wooden panels, eventually coming to rest right at their father's feet.

When two identical sets of flustered, worried eyes looked up at him he almost broke down right there, the urge to simply pull his boys into his arms was almost overwhelming. The moment quickly passed, and he cleared his throat, looking purposely just above their heads.

"Do you two wanna tell me what the Hell you think you're playing at?" There was a tense silence for a few seconds and he was about to ask them again when two deep breaths were taken.

"He put -"

"I was just -"

"And then he -"

"So I tried to –"

Both boys started telling their tale simultaneously, their words muddling together into an indistinguishable mush, until Dean turned and thumped Sam on the shoulder, effectively shutting him up.

"Genius here put **salt** on my toothbrush" Dean stated angrily, pointing accusingly at said 'Genius'.

John groaned internally. Not this crap again. They'd only just got out of the last round alive, and Mrs Peters next door still hadn't forgiven him for what happened to her poodle.

"He started it!" Sam cried petulantly "Last week he replaced the photo on my fake ID with a string bean!"

Lord help him. Where did he start on this one? He didn't approve of messing around, if it happened on a hunt it could get them killed. But boys will be boys. Mary would have known what to do.

When he tuned back in they were already arguing again, inventive modifications of the word 'ass' being used enthusiastically.

"Both of you – quiet!" The brothers complied immediately.

"Dean. You're 16 for god's sake, and you remember how this ended last time? I can't believe you started this up again – you should know better." As his eldest hung his head in shame he felt a twitch of guilt in his heart, but ignored it as he swung his gaze to the youngest Winchester.

"Sam. You knew that he was baiting you, and you rose up to it, when you could have just ignored it. You keep asking me to treat you like an adult - then start damn well acting like one!" At Sam's hurt look he realised that his words had been too harsh. He closed his eyes for a second, and mentally told himself to lay off them a bit and get to the point.

"Look. I thought the two of you would have grown out of this kid's stuff by now. It always escalates – you know that! But you just can't leave it alone. So this time you boys sort this out between yourselves alright?" Their startled looks would have been comical if John hadn't gotten himself so worked up already.

"Alright?" He asked a little louder.

"Yessir" Was the automatic reply that fell from their mouths, even though it was clear from the expressions on their faces that their minds hadn't quite caught up yet.

"Well don't just stand there! Go and get ready for school – you're already late!" They both promptly scrambled to their feet and started making their way towards the bedroom they shared when something else occurred to him.

"Oh and Sam."

"Yessir."

"I hope that salt didn't come out of supplies."

Twenty minutes later both brothers were out the door in varying states of dress and cleanliness. Well, say you what you like about his boys, but they sure knew how to follow orders. He settled back into his chair with a relaxed sound and lost himself in his research once more.

He'd just started making notes in his journal when he was startled for the second time that day by the arrival of one of his sons.

"Shouldn't you be at school?"

"Lunch break." was Dean's casual reply.

"You've been at school an hour and a half."

"Okay, a _self-imposed_ lunch break. C'mon I need it! After last lesson with that witch Mrs Burton – who by the way totally has to be our next case, I mean the woman has warts for Christ's sake – I thought I deserved a little rest."

He chuckled a little to himself at Dean's explanation but his features soon morphed into a much more familiar frown.

"What're you doing over there?" He asked suspiciously as Dean seemed to take something out the fridge and stuff it into his jacket. His anxiety only increased when Dean turned to him with that shit-eating grin on his face - the one that showed all his teeth.

"Hey. You're the one that told us to sort it out between us. Well, I've brushed my teeth four times, gargled with mouthwash twice, eaten three burgers, drank two cokes, been punched in the face _and_ made out with a girl, but I can still taste salt in my mouth. So, call me crazy, but that doesn't sound very sorted to me."

John's mind was still reeling from Dean's little list to comprehend anymore of his slightly demented rambling.

"- I mean you'd think it wouldn't taste like a freakin' sodium party in my mouth anymore, but noooooooo -"

How the Hell did he even get his hands on a toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash at school anyway? It's not like he had time to do it before he left.

"- I looked like some sort of hygiene freak, ya know the kind – _I can't get clean! MUST WASH! I just can't get the **germs** out! They're everywhere, everywhere -"_

All that food. Jesus. You'd think he didn't feed the kid. He'd already had breakfast this morning! Never mind knives and guns, next time they come across an evil creature he'll just get Dean to eat the damn thing.

"- Although, at least when I kissed Stacey later I had _minty_ _fresh_ salt breath -"

Punched in the face. Did Dean ever go a day when he didn't manage to get stabbed/shot/tortured/mauled or generally subjected to things that made John's blood pressure rise a few notches?

"- Wasn't my fault she didn't tell me she had a boyfriend. Pussy. Didn't even leave a mark before I set him on his ass -"

An hour and a half he was away. An hour and-a-freakin-half. God high school was different these days.

"- So, anyways, I'm just gonna make things even with Sammyboy, just so that we feel equal and _sorted_-"

Hell, he'd even found time to – wait a sec. "You made out with another guy's girl?"

Dean stopped mid-speech, his mouth hanging open as his eyes darted around the room, as if a suitable excuse would be crouched beneath the sink.

"And you're planning some kind of payback on Sam?"

Eventually Dean seemed to realise that he was looking up at his Dad from the bottom of a very deep hole of which he was currently its most prized and only resident.

"Wow. Look at the time. I should be getting back to school. Don't want to miss any precious learning time now do I? Bye Dad!" Dean hastily called out as he shagged-ass outdoors.

John sat stock still for a few moments, slowly processing the information he had acquired in the last few minutes. His emotions churned between disbelief, anger, amusement and worry until eventually he decided that the most sensible course of action was to go and get a much stronger coffee.

The first warning sign should have been the way Sam shut the door when he came home, or more specifically, the way he didn't shut the door. A forceful slam that rattled the pigeons out of the chimney of the crappy rented house they were staying in and alerting the oblivious Winchesters to their presence, would have been expected, and quite probably blessed by John as an excuse to get the Hell out the way of what Dean had long ago endearingly dubbed 'Sandblast Sammy'. Instead, Sam gently closed the door behind him with a slow movement that should have sent alarm bells ringing. However, John, despite his intelligence and resourcefulness when it came to things of a supernatural persuasion, admitted even to himself sometimes, that he wasn't too perceptive when it came to his sons. So, he simply thought that Sam mustn't have been as angry as he'd been expecting, and after a brisk greeting, buried himself back in his study book. Until, that is, he smelt it.

"Hey Sammy, you got any idea where that stink is coming from?" Only when Sam stopped silently, then turned and walked over to him with a stride so stiff he could give Frankenstein a run for his money, did he finally get that telltale prickling at the back of his neck that told him he was either about to get jumped by something paranormal, or go toe-to-toe with the Sandblaster himself. He prayed for the first.

When Sam reached the table in front of him he placed his hands firmly at each end and leaned over so that his face was mere inches from John, for some reason the awful smell that was hanging in the kitchen seemed to get stronger – oh.

"Yeah. I've got an idea where it's coming from." John gulped subtly. "You see on a Friday, like today, I have a PE lesson in the afternoon." John felt himself gradually backing away. "Now, PE is hard work, so I get kinda sweaty. I'm sure you understand." He paused for a moment to give John a sickly smile that for some reason made his stomach feel distinctly uneasy. "So, when I get back to the changing rooms I always put on some antiperspirant." He continued in a deceptively calm manner. "But do you know what happens when _somebody_ replaces the top layer of your deodorant stick with cream cheese?"

Well. You had to give him points for ingenuity.

"I can guess." He eventually croaked out in a voice that didn't sound like him at all.

"That's what I thought." Sam said in the same psycho killer voice that was starting to concern John rather a lot. However, before he could share any words of sympathy, comfort, understanding, or even think of something remotely safe enough to say without risking being victim to a nasty case of patricide, Sam was action-man walking towards the bathroom. This time his signature door slam _was_ present and the pigeons of course shot immediately out of the fireplace, flapping around the walls in a crazed fashion and slowly turning the room a cloudy black as soot was dislodged from their feathers.

"Bit bloody late" was all John muttered before dutifully standing up to begin the fun task of catching the frenzied birds.

Pecked, scratched and dirty, he collapsed into his chair with the intention of staying there until he lost consciousness or he woke up from this bad dream. When he heard the squeak of the front door yet again he decided that it was making its way up very impressively on his "things he'd like to kill if they weren't inanimate objects" list, and he couldn't help but release a heartfelt moan.

"Jeez. Nice to see you too." Dean said indignantly as he passed his father on the way to the fridge.

"For goodness' sake Dean - step away from the food! I don't care if it's to chuck down the well that appears to exist in your stomach just to see how long it takes before you hear it splash at the bottom, or to use as a weapon to try and make that vein in your brother's forehead explode. Just move the Hell away!" Dean obediently put down the slice of pizza that had been half-way to his mouth and shifted slightly from foot to foot as he took in John's agitated and weary appearance.

"So ... I, er, take it you heard about my joke on Sammy at school at today, huh?" Dark eyes that held the promise of pain if he uttered those words again fixed on him and he shifted from foot to foot a little faster. Just as Dean was about to give in and bolt for the TV, a knock at the front door gained the immediate attention of both of the eldest Winchesters. A look was exchanged, and John automatically reached for the handgun he kept in the draw next to him. He retrieved it quickly and gave a small nod to Dean as permission to open the door.

"Um, hey buddy. This is really random I know, but this guy outside just gave me twenty bucks to give you this note. So, well, here ya go, hope it's good news or something, whatever it is that this is about." John eased his grip on the weapon as he saw the man walk away looking pretty confused. That was weird, okay, **very** weird, but maybe not life-threatening kind of weird. However, his relief was short-lived as he noticed how pale Dean's complexion had gone and the way he seemed to have frozen to the spot. Then, suddenly, all that was left was the piece of paper floating slowly to the floor as Dean ran outside like a wendigo was on his tail.

John was across the room and out onto the garden in seconds, gun in hand, eyes instantly finding Dean standing in front of the car, hands caressing its hood absently, a look of what could only be described as 'dangerous' written across his face. John lowered his gun and stepped forward cautiously, moving behind Dean until he was close enough to feel the heat of Dean's anger radiating of him waves. To say he was unnerved by the look in Dean's eyes as he turned towards him would be an understatement.

"I'm gonna kill him." He stated plainly, and then marched into the house. John rubbed his hand roughly over his eyes and counted to ten, when he glanced up again and everything was still the same as when he'd last looked, he walked back to the house and snatched up the note from the floor.

**To the owner of the black '67 Chevy Impala just outside your house.**

**I'm sorry to tell you that I am in desperate need of some money, and in order to pay some guys I owe, I have stolen your car.**

**You'll probably never see it again.**

**Sorry.**

Well, at least that explained what sounded like his second born being tortured in the other room.

John lowered himself gently into his seat for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, his back aching in protest. He sat there for a while as the shrieks of pain gradually increased in the background, causing the neighbours to start banging angrily on the wall and one last pigeon to fly out from its hiding place behind the couch. A slow smile spread over his face. _That's it. Tomorrow, both of them were getting Nair in their shampoo._

A/N My muse deserted me for this shot! John is so darn hard to write for. I tried not to make him too fluffy, because it's just not his MO – but not too mean either, because I actually like his character, and plus, it jus' ain't nice t'speak ill o' the dead. Tell me if I did alright.


	3. Endlessly

Yesterday Once More

Disclaimer: Try and sue me! What do you want? My GCSE revision books?!

A/N Sorry the paragraphs came out much bigger than I intended. This is a long one for me, but my muse stole this idea, drained it of momentum and shouted at it until it cried. Just suspend your disbelief for this one 'kay?

Dedication: All of my reviewers/readers! I love you all! Especially aquaesulis76, irishgirl9, NikkiCee and julsus.

Rating: T

Genre: Angst, hell yes.

Dean: 17 Sam: 13

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Endlessly

God he hated silence. The way that it sucked all of the energy and life out of everything around it, and then seemed to settle over its surroundings, somehow sounding louder than any noise could ever be. Dean hated it. His fingers itched to reach for the radio, to fill the unnatural stillness in the car with the pounding beats of classic rock, country, blues, metal, soul, jazz, Hell! Freakin' disco music! Anything to shut up the voices talking incessantly in his head, clambering over each other, dragging up thoughts he always kept locked away at the back of his mind, where not even he could find them sometimes. But he didn't want to wake up Dad or Sammy. So he sat on his hands, and the silence echoed around him, spreading out from the car, and reverberating through the graveyard. God he hated stakeouts.

Another town, another hunt, another pissed off spirit - evil was starting to blend into one ominous creature for him now, an immense cloud of darkness that they chased across the country, tackling it one water droplet at a time. He felt tired. Screw that, he felt _exhausted._ Sammy had hit puberty with a ferocious bang, and everyone was caught in the blast. Dad didn't exactly react well to defiance or attitude, and Sammy was shovelling them at the old man by the bucket load, which was causing problems to say the least. Dean glanced at the rear view mirror, in which he could see the two most important people in his life, not arguing for the first time in weeks, united for the time-being by the power of unconsciousness. That's what this is all about really. What he can never bring himself to face. What he can never think about for more than 5 minutes before forcing his attention elsewhere. The fact that Dean Winchester hadn't slept a wink in over 12 years.

Most of the time he couldn't even admit it to himself, saying that he went to bed every night and closed his eyes like a 'normal' person. But what he got wasn't rest, he didn't slip into an oblivious slumber, never lost control of his thoughts, didn't allow his muscles to slowly relax into the peace of sleep. No. He went to the place he'd created in his head. Carefully crafted over a lifetime of insomnia, an empty, blank space inside his mind, where he could fall into a form of hibernation, removed from himself in some way. But reality always clawed at the edges of his little bubble world, grounding him in his body, not letting him completely float away, keeping him conscious of the happenings around him. Awake. Always. But sometimes dreaming.

Sam stirred briefly in his sleep, and Dean froze. _Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up. _He heard his pulse speed up and he didn't have a clue in Hell why. Isn't that what he wanted? What he'd been praying for only moments before? Noise, interaction, life? But for some reason the idea of having to face Sam, to watch him wipe away the sleep with envious eyes and to force his ever-present mask back over his face with heavy hands was just too much for him to bear. Perhaps it was the masochistic side of him, the part of him that wanted him to sink into his thoughts and suffer. As if now that he'd started to drown he was too goddamn stubborn to clamber to the surface. He held his breath, and Sam merely turned over and nestled into the leather of the seats before stilling.

He let out his breath in a long sigh and collapsed backwards into the soft cushion of the car, his head lolling back, looking upwards through the roof to the stars he knew were above. He could still remember that night. The fire, the heat, and then carrying Sammy out the front door. But that was just bits and pieces, a merging of chaos and confusion. What was really stuck with him, what was burned in his memory forever, was that **night**.

"_Daddy?" A beat of silence and then broken eyes slowly moved upwards to meet that of his son. _

"_I can't sleep" They were the first words he'd said since __**it**__ happened. He didn't even know what 'it' was. He just remembered the look of ruin in his Daddy's eyes, the pain, and he knew that whatever it was, it didn't deserve a name._

_His Daddy just blinked slowly, and his focus seemed to drift around the room, never once coming back to rest on Dean again. He felt himself fidget nervously._

"_Daddy?"_

"_Go back to bed Dean." His voice was so hoarse he could hardly make out the words. "Please. Just go back to bed." Dean followed his first ever order._

A moan escaped his lips, and he curled into the doorframe as he tried to escape his own memories. He'd been a good boy and gone back to the room he shared with Sammy, shuffling over to the cot and grazing a kiss across his baby brother's forehead before sliding beneath the covers of his own bed. But sleep would not take him. He had tossed and turned for hours, knotting the sheets around his legs and counting the wooden planks in Sammy's crib. He didn't know why, but a pit had formed in his stomach, a sense of foreboding stinging at his senses. At the time he couldn't understand it, and he wanted his Mummy to come and whisper reassuring words in his ear, sing a lullaby to ease him away to another place. But she wasn't there. Just him, Sammy, and the silence.

The first few nights had come faster than he could follow, a blur of sympathetic glances and whispers of "poor boy" that they thought he didn't hear, were the only intervals between his quiet moments in the darkness. Sometimes Dad would come and stand in the doorway, and Dean would pretend to be asleep, purposely slowing his breathing and making the occasional incomprehensible noise, until he heard the door close again.

Of course he'd felt the effects of his constant wakefulness. His body had slowed down to a lethargic rate, it exhausted him to speak, so he barely did. His eyes developed a heaviness that almost pained him to lift after performing a ridiculously drawn out blink. He constantly found himself zoning out from everything around him, and inevitably, people had started to notice.

_He crept down the stairs to get a glass of water, it wasn't like he had anything better to do at night anymore, and he'd felt like the darkness was suffocating him up there. However, his slow legs weren't working how they should, and he slipped, grabbing the banister at the last moment and clutching to it as he waited for his brain to register that he hadn't fallen, listening to the blood pump in his ears. When he felt calmed enough, he pulled away from his support and straightened cautiously, he felt fine. Better than fine. Well, better than he had been since __**it**__ happened. His body had gained some sort of balance that he hadn't had before and his eyes were wider, adjusting to the dim light of the hallway. He didn't get it._

"_John!" The loud exclamation made him jump, and only his new awareness stopped him from tumbling off the step he was standing on. The voice sounded like Daddy's friend Mike, and it had come from behind the kitchen door where he could now hear low muffled sounds. He didn't want to interrupt Daddy having a grownup conversation, but he wanted to know what they were doing up in the middle of the night, so he padded over to the door and pressed his ear up against the wood, covering his other ear with his hand to stop any outside noise._

"… _and you can't go on like this! What are you doing in your room all day, huh? I've seen some of the books you've got in there John! Crap about ghosts and monsters and God knows what … you've got to snap out of this, start going outside again … come back to the garage. Maybe workin' a little would do you good, get your mind off things ya know?"_

"_Get my mind of things you say?" His Daddy sounded more tired than him, and he had no idea what Mike was going on about, but he wished that he'd stop._

"_Just carry on like nothing happened right?"_

"_That's not what I said John! I-"_

"_My wi-" His voice broke for a moment "My __**wife**__ has just died, and you want me to what? Go back to the garage? Just walk around like everything is fine? That everything's okay? Well I can't, I can't … You have no idea what it's like! …how can you possibly understand?"_

"_I'm not saying that I can! I just want you to do what's right, for you and the boys-"_

"_DO NOT TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY SONS!" The roar was so ferocious that Dean jerked away from the door, falling backwards._

"_I am their FATHER and I know what's best for them! I have to…" When his voice faded again, Dean crawled back over to the door, desperate to understand what was going on._

"…_need to work out what happened that night, have to do more research."_

"_What are you talking about? Nothing happened that night! Electrical fire in the wall or ceiling or something… this is what I'm talkin' about! You've got to pull yourself together. No matter what you say John, your boys are suffering."_

"_You trying to-"_

"_JUST LISTEN TO ME! Folks are startin' to talk. Sayin' that you've been going to see some psychic…sprouting nonsense. You hardly spend any time with Sammy, Dean's the one that calms him when he cries, and well, he's in no state to be carin' for anyone! Have you looked at him lately John? Seen how pale he is…doesn't talk no more, bags under his eyes, and God, no kid should have eyes like that." _

_Dean lowered his head, did he really look like that? He never really looked at himself in the mirror anymore, but he didn't want to get his Daddy into trouble. He was so confused; he didn't know what all the other things they were talking about meant, but it sounded like bad stuff. But he __**liked **__looking after Sammy, why didn't anyone understand that? There was movement behind the door, so he tuned back into what they were saying._

"_All I'm saying John, is that we all wanna be sure you and your family are okay, and we wanna help you. But if you can't get it together, then we're gonna have to do something."_

_Those words twisted in his gut. What did Mike mean? Would they do something to his Daddy? Were they gonna take him away? Would they take him and Sammy away? Was it because of what Mike said about him, how he looked bad?_

_He pulled back from the door, noticing that his movements were back to being sluggish again, and snuck back up the stairs. One thing was for sure – he wasn't going to let his Daddy down. He'd be better. He wouldn't let anyone else see what was wrong with him, wouldn't let anyone know about his 'problem'. He was a big boy, 5 next month! He'd just deal with it himself._

Dean tensed at the memory. Looking back on it now he could see how easily everything could have gotten screwed real fast. Luckily John had sensed the danger to his family and hustled them all into the car and out of Kansas the next morning. But if he hadn't . . . social services, psyche evaluations, interviews – Dean physically shook himself to get the thoughts out of his head, sitting forward in his seat, the leather squeaking at the movement.

From that point onwards he had made a special effort to listen and talk to people, made sure to smile and laugh, and nobody had suspected a thing, 'cos c'mon. Who thinks a 4 year old is lying to them? John never said anything about his sudden change and Dean was glad – he didn't like lying to his Dad, and he wasn't sure if he would have held up to an interrogation.

He had tried even harder to get some sleep. Dean couldn't repress a little snort as he remembered lying in bed, screwing up his face in concentration and forcing all of his muscles to be completely still, but nothing had done the trick. His fatigue had increased steadily, making him work harder and harder to keep up his charade, to keep his body _alive. _In retrospect Dean's sure that he should have collapsed, or lost senses or something. He was running on empty, but all he could remember feeling was tired.

24 hours a day, 7 days a week, he was tired. Just going through the motions. All he had looked forward to was those moments of awareness. After the night on the stairs he had those feelings again every few days or so, when Sammy almost rolled off a table, when Dad threw a bottle against a wall, when he'd walked onto the road and almost gotten clipped by a car – he felt it. That buzz that spread through his body, awakening his nerves and recharging his mind. Of course he was too young to know what was causing it, he just knew that he liked it, and he wanted more.

God. He had been one screwed up kid, unwittingly wanting something bad to happen, just so that he could get a few minutes of respite. The thought sickened him, and he wanted to hit something, break something into little pieces, but he knew he couldn't, and the hush of the cemetery laughed at him.

A growl escaped his lips, as if telling the silence to back the Hell off, and then he allowed himself to settle again, focusing on the steady breathing of his family, until all he could hear was heartbeats in the night. It reminded him of years in his bedroom, gradually laying the foundations for his inside world. His body had adapted, draining the last ounce of energy out of everything he ate, every drop of caffeine he drank, stretching the after effects of those moments until they snapped. But it wasn't enough. The blurring in his mind had thickened, and he had simply needed **more.**

"_Dean. Are you watching me? You gotta pay attention son. This is important." He dutifully put all his effort into tracking his Dad's movements, watching as he twisted his body into the correct shapes._

"_Didya get all of that? I know it looks hard, but once you're used to it, it'll come naturally." Yeah he'd gotten it, even with his brain on autopilot for the first half; it didn't look that difficult really. However, there was one thing he didn't get._

"_Why are you showing me this Dad?"_

_A crease appeared at the corners of his eyes and his lips seemed to tighten fractionally. "Because it's important Dean. You're 7 and a half now, and you're gonna need to know this stuff."_

"_But why?"_

"_Because I'm telling you to!" The last part was accompanied with an angry finger pointed in his direction and Dean took an involuntary step backwards. This small action seemed to do something to Dad, as his expression immediately softened, and something akin to guilt sparked in his eyes. He crouched down in front of Dean and put a hand on his shoulder._

"_I'm sorry dude. I just really want you to get this duck and weave manoeuvre down okay? It might be really useful in the future." He had no clue why he would need to know this – none of the other kids at school had talked about learning it. But the look in his Dad's eyes was so intense that he desperately wanted to do it right._

"_Okay Dad. I think I got it." A small smile caused the bristles on Dad's chin to brush against each other as he stood up._

"_Alright. We're gonna do a little practice okay? Nothing serious. I'm gonna take it real slow and you just go through the moves I taught you and you'll be fine. Don't worry about the first time 'kay? I'd never hurt you."_

_He nodded his head once as he quickly ran through what he'd just seen. Truth was, despite Dad's words, he was nervous. His body seemed to do what he asked it to a second or two later, and his limbs had gone sort of numb the last few weeks. If he messed this up then Dad might start asking questions, and then he'd find out about his problem. The idea frightened him, as his mind went back to the bits and pieces he'd heard behind the door so many months ago. But he had no choice, and he __**really**__ wanted to do this good for Dad. So he stood in front of Dad and got into the stance he'd been shown._

"_Ready? Here it comes." _

_As his fist started to move towards Dean's head, time slowed down around him and that glorious rush surged up from somewhere deep in his stomach and burned through him, filling his chest with electricity. Suddenly everything around him went into overload. He could hear a woman laughing outside, could see that the ends of the wallpaper opposite hadn't been joined up right, could taste the burger he'd had for lunch, could feel the scratch of denim against his legs, and most importantly, he could see his Dad's carefully placed punch parting air in front of him. So he did what was instinctual – he got out the way. He didn't even realise he was mirroring his Dad's movements only seconds before, until he was standing a foot away watching Dad's face morph into confusion as he pulled the punch at the point where the tip of Dean's nose would have been, only to find nothing there._

_It had never been this strong before. He could practically feel his body humming with energy and it took all of his self-control not to rock back and forth on his heels. This was. .this was. . this was __**good.**__ He just knew that this one was going to last for days and days. The prickling at the back of his neck told him that Dad was staring, but when he looked up he saw that he also had a huge smile across his face, and the way his gaze was caressing him, he just wanted to bask in it forever. Yeah, this was good._

When Dean came back to the present he found a similar smile gracing his own lips, and subconsciously his eyes had drifted to his Father's slumbered form. That had been one of the best days of his life.

He'd been a bright kid, he'd made the connection, even though he didn't understand it. He'd begged his Dad to give him daily training sessions, and although a little bemused, he'd agreed. For the first time in years he didn't have to work to simply keep going and he'd loved it. The smiles had come easily and his laugh had become lower and longer. He'd been so wrapped up in his happiness that he'd virtually forgotten about his problem, or perhaps that's just what he'd told himself so that he didn't have to think about it, kind of like how he dealt with it now. Even now at the age of 17 every part of him was screaming to just let it go, that if he ignored it, with a poof of smoke it would disappear. But that deeper, darker side of him was in control now, and he'd be damned if he was gonna argue with it.

Adrenaline. That one word floated to him across the dashboard. It was the only answer. If you could call it that. It hadn't been until he was a teenager that he learnt the word and he instantly knew that was what he'd been experiencing. Dad had just been recounting how he got a rush of adrenaline on the last hunt that had saved his life, and something had just clicked. It wasn't like he'd felt the hormones being released into his blood or anything, it was just that it was exactly how he felt – all pumped and ready, the 'fight or flight' response, except that in his case Winchesters weren't taught to run away.

He ran a hand over his face and up through his hair, a nervous habit he had yet to get rid of. God knows Adrenaline didn't magically sort it all out, it was like trying to heal a bullet wound with a band-aid. Wasn't adrenaline supposed to work its way out of your system in a few hours? He didn't know, he'd never had the guts to look it up, afraid it would give him answers that proved him to be the freak he'd always thought he was. The simple fact of the matter was that people can't exist without sleep. It was impossible. But he dealt with things normal people would call impossible every day, things that most people thought only existed in science-fiction, maybe he was just another freak of nature. He wasn't even sure if that was a good or bad thing.

His stomach rumbled lowly and he rolled his eyes, yet another lovely side-effect of his insomnia making itself known. His Dad often grumbled about Dean eating him out of house and home, but it wasn't exactly a walk in the park for him either. Being awake nearly twice as much as was normal, meant he had to eat nearly twice as much as was normal. Living on a steady stream of M&Ms and Beef Jerky didn't the hunter maketh. Hell, combine that with the few gallons of coffee he had to drink every day (just for that extra kick) and it's amazing his heart is even still beating with all the crap it has to pump round.

Well, unless he was going to stoop to a new low and eat the rest of the Twinkie that had been sitting in the glove compartment for nearly a year, then his stomach was just going to have to suck it up. Maybe that's how he achieved this science-be-damned trick. He was doing it to himself, controlling his body so sternly it did whatever he asked. Perhaps some gut feeling had been woken that night, warning him that his family was in danger now, and that he had to protect them, keep them safe, watch over them, all the time, never resting, and his body responded.

His Dad tried to make him a perfect soldier. He had no idea how well he'd succeeded.

"Dean." He near jumped out of his skin at the voice.

"Sam! Don't do that!" He hissed. Shooting a glare towards the back of the car.

"Sorry." He said gently, giving Dean a curious look as he climbed into shotgun, careful not to wake Dad as he moved. "I didn't mean to." He slid into the seat, leaning up against the window as he turned to face Dean.

"Yeah whatever. How long you been awake?"

"Long enough to see you sitting there looking like you're sucking on a lemon. What's up?" and there it was. A perfect opening. He could tell him. Get this damn weight off his shoulders. He probably wouldn't tell him everything. Admitting you're some kind of weirdo freak who's been lying to everyone he cares about isn't the sort of thing you can get out in one go. Maybe he'd start with something small, seemingly insignificant. Maybe those words he'd tried so many years ago, "I can't sleep", would be a good start.

But he knows he can't. Knows it would open the floodgates and everything would come pouring out. Knows he'd have to look into those brown eyes as they fill with confusion, hurt and worry. He'd have too much to explain, too many secrets to tell, and he knows Sammy. He'd want more. More reasons, more answers, and he'd probably never forgive him for keeping it from him. He couldn't handle that.

It's why Sam will never understand. Ever since he learned to speak he's wanted better than this life, a **normal** life, and he's never understood why Dean doesn't. Of course he does. No-one in their right mind wants to see the things they see. But he's got no choice. Even if he didn't have to stick around to look after Dad and Sammy, even if they manage to finally kill that yellow-eyed son of a bitch, he's trapped in this life. Adrenaline. He needs it. He's not ashamed to say he's addicted to it. Without it he might as well be in a coma for all the difference it would make. He'd go back to that half-dead feeling he's tried to shut out from his childhood. He doesn't want this life – he needs it.

"Nothing Sammy. I'm fine."

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A/N Hmm . . . . I'm sure you can pick a hundred holes in this, but it just would not leave me alone! I know I SOB'd John a little more in this shot, but I figure that he was going through a lot, and someone said I was kinda soft on him last time S This is only my second time writing angst and I'm still trying to sort out the style, so any comments, good or bad, would help me greatly for next time. x


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